ain’t just her mailman’s nickname…

It was one of her earlier, but riskier fantasies and one of her favorites. She’d masturbated to it half a dozen times in her shower. So much so that just the act of thinking about it got her juices flowing.

In this fantasy, she orders several very nasty magazines, which are brought to her by her, so-hot, mailman. He’s a strikingly handsome black man, who had four inches and eighty pounds on her, built like a quarterback, all lean muscle and bone and grace. With the evidence of her depraved sexuality in his hands, he would **** her, forcing her, first to her knees, then her back.

With his cock still soaked from her mouth, her belly still full of his cum, she would take him into her virgin pussy, stretched beyond all recognition by his monstrous black cock, until he finally filled her, even more completely, by the buckets (no, barrels) of cum, he would spill into her waiting womb.

The illustration of a huge black cock, just barely touching her virginal red lips was one of her favorite drawings.

Just the thought of being ****, of being held and controlled got her juices flowing. Mark’s heavy breathing as he read it over her shoulder didn’t help matters, especially since it was more than matched by her own inability to catch her breath.

“You know, they don’t come that large and there’s no real difference between racial groups,” Mark pointed out, tapping the drawing, amusement clear in both his tone and every line of his body.

That killed the mood, pretty damn quick.